aret usually stayed at the Dower
House until after dinner; but this morning she came up within half an
hour of receiving the message.

She did not pretend to despise her sister's terror, or call it
superstitious.

"Mary," she said, taking her sister's jewelled old fingers into her own
two hands, "we must leave all this to the good God. It may mean much, or
little, or nothing. He only knows; but at least we may pray. Let me tell
Isabel; a child's prayers are mighty with Him; and she has the soul of a
little child still."

So Isabel was told; and after church she came up to dine at the Hall and
spend the day there; for Lady Maxwell was thoroughly nervous and upset:
she trembled at the sound of footsteps, and cried out when one of the men
came into the room suddenly.

Isabel went again to evening prayer at three o'clock; but could not keep
her thoughts off the strange nervous horror at the Hall, though it seemed
to rest on no better foundation than the waking dreams of an old
lady--and her mind strayed away continually from the darkening chapel in
which she sat, so near where Sir Nicholas himself lay, to the upstairs
parlour where the widow sat shaken and trembling at her own curious
fancies about her dear son.

Mr. Bodder's sermon came to an end at last; and Isabel was able to get
away, and hurry back to the Hall. She found the old ladies as she had
left them in the little drawing-room, Lady Maxwell sitting on the
window-seat near the harp, preoccupied and apparently listening for
something she knew not what. Mistress Margaret was sitting in a tall
padded porter's chair reading aloud from an old English mystic, but her
sister was paying no attention, and looked strangely at the girl as she
came in. Isabel sat down near the fire and listened; and as she listened
the memory of that other day, years ago, came to her when she sat once
before with these two ladies in the same room, and Mistress Margaret read
to them, and the letter came from Sir Nicholas; and then the sudden
clamour from the village. So now she sat with terror darkening over her,
glancing now and again at that white expectant face, and herself
listening for the first far-away rumour of the dreadful interruption that
she now knew must come.

"The Goodness of God," read the old nun, "is the highest prayer, and it
cometh down to the lowest part of our need. It quickeneth our soul and
bringeth it on life, and maketh it for to waxen in grace and virtue. It